Annabella Ritzau

RUNNER UP

My love or your love?

It’s not like I hate my father.

If you asked me, “Khady, do you love your father?” I’d answer without thinking, “Yes, of course.” Even if I paused for longer than two seconds, I’d probably still say yes. But somewhere underneath that answer, I’ve always wanted to say: it’s complicated.

Especially now.

My father’s scent always arrives before he does. His cheap Moroccan oud lingers around him, thick enough to fill every room before his footsteps cross the doorway. He carries it proudly, like the smell itself could convince people he was wealthier than he really was. But you see my father is a painfully cheap man, the kind of man who wants a champagne lifestyle but has a soft-drink budget.

He never buys bottles of oud. Rather, every morning before work, he stops at the perfume kiosk in the mall, where the workers hand him free samples. By evening, on his way home, they give him the leftovers nobody else wanted.

As I sit in his Toyota, thick with the same woody scent. Steam fogs the windows while Bruce Grove blurs past outside. Neon signs from corner shops flicker against the evening rain as people hurry in and out, carrying bags for their Tuesday dinners.

I keep my eyes on them instead of him.

Beside me, my father grips the steering wheel with all his might.

“You embarrassed your mother,” he says suddenly.

I stare out the window. “Okay.”

“Okay?” His laugh is humorless. “You disappear into a mental hospital for weeks and all you can say is okay?”

“I didn’t disappear.”

“You left medical school.” His hands tighten around the wheel. “After everything I sacrificed.”

Silence.

“You know what people ask me now?” he continues. “‘Where is your daughter? Why is she not studying?’ What should I tell them?”

“I don’t know, maybe tell the truth.”

“The truth?” He scoffs. “The truth is you had opportunities people pray for.”

The swishing and squeaking of the window wipers answered for me. Then I say the eight words that split the car clean in half:

“I do not want to study medicine anymore.”

Silence crashes into us. My father stares straight ahead.

“No,” he says. “You will continue.”

“I won’t.”

“You think life is about what you want?”

“I’ve tried, Baba.” My vision starts to become blurry.

“Tried?” His pitch rises. “Khady, people would kill for your place!”

“I know.”

“Then why are you throwing it away?”

“Because every lecture felt like drowning. Because I spent more nights crying in the library than sleeping. Because every time I pictured my future, I didn’t see medicine. Because it’s not my dream.”

“Your dream?” he snaps. “You think I had dreams? I came to this country with nothing.”

“I know that too.”

“No, you don’t.” He shakes his head. “You children grow up comfortable and suddenly think happiness is a career.”

The words sit between us, heavy and sharp. In a moment like this, there are three things a person can do: fill the silence, apologize for it, or run from it.

I do none of them.

My father’s jaw tightens. His disappointment spreads through the car thicker than the oud itself. Instead, I say the thing I’ve been carrying for years.

“I want to become a writer.”

My father erupts into deep laughter. “Writing, eh? You want to tell stories for a living?”

“Yes.”

“Do you seriously think paper will pay your bills?”

“Yes.”

“You want to leave medicine for writing?”

“Yes.”

“People clap for you and then what? You think this is a real job?”

“It’s real to me.”

“Khady.” He says my name like a warning. “People from families like ours do not survive on dreams.”

“Baba, this is what I love. I love making up stories; I love writing characters.”

He doesn’t respond. The heavy rain outside accompanies the silence in the car. The rest of our ride is in silence. I look through the misty window and see the people of Tottenham: riding their bikes, pushing their prams, walking their dogs. My dad pulls up to the driveway but doesn’t switch off the engine.

“The fuel is going to run out, Baba.”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he just looks out of the window.

“Baba?”

"They would not tell me anything… I had to drive four hours not knowing if my daughter was alive."

He sniffs.

"I sat in that hospital waiting room for two hours," he continued. "In my work clothes, I went through your entire life and I kept thinking, what did I miss? What did I not see?"

The rain has softened to a quiet tap against the roof.

"Writing is not nothing," I say carefully.

"I know that." He looks almost embarrassed to admit it. "I have read your stories, Khady."

I turned to face him properly for the first time since we left the hospital.

"The ones in your notebook," he says. "The blue one you wrote at home for GCSE English practice. I’ve read that; I’ve also read your stories from Year 8. I’ve read all of them, Khady."

"You never said anything."

"No." He looks back out at the wet street. "I didn't."

We sit with that for a moment.

“I know it's not easy, I definitely know that. But Baba, we only live once, and my life, God forbid, could end tomorrow. I cannot live my life the way you, or Mum, or my teachers want me to. I just want to be happy. Being a doctor is great, but it does not make me happy. I love writing.”

We both look out the car window as the harsh rain returns, making a pedestrian its latest victim. His umbrella won’t open and eventually he succumbs to the inevitable.

With a turn of the hand, the car sleeps for the night. My father hands me an umbrella.

“We will discuss writing opportunities with your mother.”

“Really?”

“Don't push it.” He laughs.

“I love you, Baba.”

“I love you too.”